


Do Not Stand By My Grave and Weep (I Am Not There)

by Xenosangui



Series: Altered Destiny [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenosangui/pseuds/Xenosangui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Arthur was six years old when his father left the castle in the hands of Sir Kinborough, one of his oldest and most trusted knights, and decided it was time to take Arthur on his first patrol of Camelot’s borders.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur, after embarking with his father on a patrol, encounters some rather unsavory characters who proceed to change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Stand By My Grave and Weep (I Am Not There)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue to a story I've had in my head for a very long time. However, with my crazy schedule, I'm more likely to post it in segments from the same mental universe, which is why you get this little piece. Please note: later portions of this will include content such as slavery (not sexual slavery, however), so it that sort of thing isn't your cup of tea, I suggest not reading past the first story in this series.

Arthur was six years old when his father left the castle in the hands of Sir Kinborough, one of his oldest and most trusted knights, and decided it was time to take Arthur on his first patrol of Camelot’s borders. It was Arthur first _real_ patrol and thus would only be a week long—just long enough to reach the border and teach his enough for the trip to be useful. On their way back, half of the knights that went would accompany them back, while the other half remained to finish the patrol.

The horses were being readied by a few stable boys while the knights milled around, and the three servants chosen to accompany the rather large group, when his father pulled him aside.

The King remained standing—and Arthur craned his head to look up at him. The king gave a small, forced smile as he surveyed his son thoughtfully, making sure the nursemaid had done her job properly that morning. He found no obvious faults, so he nodded and addressed his son quietly, though with a tone that was no less harsh than usual, “My son, this is a very important day for you.”

Arthur immediately dropped the grin and stood solemnly, mimicking his father posture carefully, “Father?”

“Hmm.” Uther forced himself to look away from his son’s eyes—Igraine’s eyes—for a few moments, and then continued as if he hadn’t paused, “This is your first step to becoming a good prince and one day, a great king.”

The awe began to seep back into his son’s face, eyes widening almost impossibly wide, though no sound escaped his mouth.

“But to become great, you must know everything about your land—the borders must be as familiar as the creases on your palm.”

“Yes, Father.”

Uther watched his son for a few more moments, his face never betraying his emotions, “Very well then. Remember—your people look up to you. Sit straight on your horse. Never slump. It’s unbecoming of a prince. Do not look down until we pass the gates out of Camelot and it is severely important that you obey every command I give you on this journey. Is that understood, Arthur?”

The young boy’s eyes flickered to his father’s, surprise obvious. Uther rarely addressed his son by his name. Perhaps one day, the fact that his wife’s final words had been his son’s name, but for now, it only remained a painful reminder of what he had to give up to fulfill his and Igraine’s dreams of having a child.

The boy nodded, dutiful as ever.

“Good. I do believe it is time to leave, if we wish to reach the border according to schedule. Fredric!”

One of the three servants, and Uther’s newest manservant—the prior one had been accused of sorcery (there was very little proof, but Uther couldn’t have someone so close to the family who potentially could be a sorcerer)—rushed over immediately. His hands were already preoccupied with two bags he’d obviously been in the middle of packing, but Uther paid no mind to this. It was inconsequential, really.

 Fredric took a few gasping breaths, and then finally managed to choke out an admittedly frantic, “Sire?”

“Inform the knights that we are leaving in a few minutes. And make sure you haven’t forgotten anything.” 

“Of course, sire.” The servant bowed, and then practically ran back to the rest of the group. They immediately picked up their movements, clearly not ready to leave quite that moment.

“The fools.” Uther said under his breath. Next to him, he could feel his son shift impatiently, nearly bouncing on his heels in excitement. The king nearly opened his mouth to command his son to stand still, but though better of it. Sometimes he forgot that Arthur was only a child. 

This…energy would one day be trained to be put to better uses, but for now, the boy was six. There would be time for corrective measures later. Uther didn’t think himself a tyrant, after all.

Finally, the servants pulled Uther’s horse forward and he mounted quickly, pulling his son up to sit in front of him. The boy knew how to ride a horse, but it was not realistic to expect him to make the entire journey on the back of a horse by himself. He waited for the ten knights who were coming with them to mount their own horses before he led the way out of the citadel.

Arthur immediately settled down once they were outside the gates, and Uther didn’t need to be able to see his son’s face to know that he was probably looking enamored once more. Arthur had been out of the castle only a handful of times—and he could remember very few of those times.

It was a rather uneventful trip. Though bandits were becoming more and more common, Uther had made sure that the path they followed rarely accommodated bandits or outlaws of any kind. It wasn’t impossible that a group or two could have set up camp, but it appeared as if they hadn’t. For whatever reason, Uther didn’t see hide nor hair of a bandit. It was a good thing, of course. At the moment, Arthur was much to young to see a man die.

They trip was a quiet one, and after only three days of patrolling the border, Uther noticed his son’s exhaustion and knew that it was time to go home once more. Arthur was too young to learn much, but the experience itself was all Uther wanted his son to truly get. Uther motioned Sir Owain, a young, but noble knight, over and told him to gather the four other knights to accompany them home.

The seasons were just beginning to turn, the leaves already falling into a fine layer on the ground. There was very little chance of snow this early in the season, but Uther hardly wanted to run that risk either. So they set off for Camelot a few hours later.

The attack came out of nowhere.

The five knights that remained with both Arthur and Uther knights were relaxed after nearly a week without attacks. Their eyes were focused forward, and none of them cast a glance to the side or behind them as the entire company meander forward, jostling one another and joking with one another.

Even Uther didn’t begrudge them the amusement—and most of the knights with them were some of his oldest and most trusted. A few of them had grown up in the castle with him.

The attack came from behind and two of the five knights were down before Uther even knew they were being attacked. He only needed to spare a single glance at the fallen knights, arrows sticking out of their necks at obscene angles. They were dead before they even hit the ground.

Men came from everywhere and Uther only had time to shout, “Bandits!” once before he was knocked from his own horse. Arthur cried out in shock at the jarring motion, and Uther could only spare a momentary look at his son—noting the blood that stained the boy’s hands as he grasped at his left arm rather pitifully—before he pushed Arthur into a nearby bush and drew his own sword against the attackers.

But the truth was that there were too many to fight. Men seemed to come from everywhere, outnumbering him and his knights ten to one. They were impossible odds, but Uther only widened his stance, knowing that if he was to go down, he would go down fighting. They would not get his son. Not unless they killed him first.

Two of the men stalked around the king, grinning wide, savage grins as they held up their own swords. Uther refused to show fear, and merely held his own sword slightly tighter, daring them to step forward and take him on. Not once did they speak, but their eyes gleamed in crazy fury.

Making a quick decision, Uther lunged forward, swiping low at one of the two. They both stepped backwards, looking surprised that he’d taken the first move. One of the bandits blocked the blow, while the other’s grin only widened. It seemed like they fought for ages, neither of them making any headway as they continued to parry one another’s blows. Somehow, Uther managed to hold off the blows, while also keeping one eye on the second bandit, who seemed content to sit back and watch the fight. It wouldn’t be for quite some time that he would realize that he should have paid more attention to the second man.

Had he done so at the time, he would have noticed that the man’s eyes were not always on the fight—but on a spot only a few feet behind Uther.

The same spot where his son hid, frozen by the sounds of clanging steel and the gasps of dying men.

When the bandits suddenly ran, disappearing into the forest as quickly as they had come, Uther had only been able to lower his sword, and glance at the only knight remaining standing—Owain. He didn’t seem too bad off, with only a few visible nicks. One of the other knights was still breathing, though not for long, judging by the massive wound the split the man open from waist to shoulder. It was a mortal wound that no physician would be capable of healing.

The other knights, and the servant Fredric, were dead and obviously hadn’t lasted long against the onslaught.

 Owain gasped harshly, flinching when he saw Sir Godwyn’s massive wound, “Sire, why did they run? They could have killed us. We—”

 “Hush.” Uther said harshly, his mind already going through scenarios, but nothing fit. There was no reason to leave them alive. It was as if they had gotten what they wanted and left. But the King had no money on him, nothing of value whatsoever, as per usual during a patrol. And bandits, no matter how mighty in number or how suicidal they were, attacked a group who was even semi-capable of defending themselves without having something specific in mind. 

Uther froze as he came to one, stomach-dropping conclusion. “Arthur?” He breathed at first, and then, louder, “Arthur!”

 Owain’s face suddenly paled in understanding, “Sire, you don’t think…”

“Arthur!” The king ignored the knight, rustling through the bushes he’d shoved his son into, but there was nothing there. Arthur could have run from the sounds of battle, but that wasn’t likely, “He was wounded. He couldn’t have gone far…” 

“Sire.” 

They searched the forest for a few nights, and, eventually the king returned to Camelot and dispatched more knights in an effort to find his only son. He accompanied them as many times as he could, but they never found hide nor hair of Camelot’s young prince.

“Oh, Igraine.” Uther whispered to his wife’s portrait a few weeks later, stroking her cheek as a single tear trailed down his face, “He’s gone. Your son…my son. I’ve failed you.”

Her face only smiled down at him, but Uther could only see disappointment in the eyes he once only saw love in.

“I will find him.”

 

(*)       (*)       (*)

 

Years passed in Camelot. Sorcerers were hunted more than ever, as Uther decided that the reason why he failed to find his son was the work of magic and enchantments. Nothing else was powerful enough to keep him away from his son.

The knights gained a second objective. Not only was it their duty to protect Camelot, but they were also forced to swear to do anything in their power to find the young prince. Few found a problem with this, but not one ever came forward with news.

Rewards were offered for information, but no one ever reported anything. There were a few false alarms—but after he made it clear that he was not afraid to execute anyone who came to him with useless, exaggerated, or false information, those reports stopped immediately.

Even though Uther claimed that it was impossible to completely disappear with a child like Arthur, he was never spotted in Camelot or its surrounding kingdoms.

After five years, the council came forward, hesitantly but firmly insisting that he would need to claim another heir. Anyone other than Uther had long since gave up on Arthur being alive—there was no reason to keep a prince if they didn’t mean to ransom him and it had been far too long for ransom to be an option.

It was most likely that the boy was dead, either taken by the bandits that day and killed, or he’d stumbled off doing the battle, battered and wounded, and later died of those injuries.

Uther would hear nothing of it, insisting that Arthur was alive. He was refuse to believe anything else. It would take many years before he could be convinced to name another boy, the son of one of his closest friends, as the heir in place of his son, but he made it clear that when Arthur returned, that position would be his. The boy, only thirteen years old at the time, agreed wholeheartedly.

 The king, seeing that the child had no real want towards the kingship, decided that the arrangement would do. The boy would put up no fight if Arthur returned to claim his rightful place on the throne.

But still he refused to call off the search. It would take another year for his to fully accept his son’s replacement and finally acknowledge the fact that there was no way for his son to still be alive.

He locked himself in his room that day, banning even his manservant from entering. No one was quite sure what the king did that day, but when he emerged., he immediately pulled the knights back to Camelot and gave his son the funeral befitting of the prince he was. 

Afterward, he pulled the young boy—the would-be prince—aside and began the training that the boy would need. He was several years behind, but there was nothing that could be done about that. 

When they finished for that day, he bid the boy to leave, giving him a few words of approval towards his techniques in sword fighting. “Good work. We might make a prince of you yet, Leon.”

 And that was that.

**Author's Note:**

> There it is. I won't lie--this is the first Merlin fic I've posted (I have quite a few Harry Potter/Supernatural Crossovers over on FFN under the same name), so I'm sure there are plenty of flaws. Thank you for taking time to read this.
> 
> The title is from a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye


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